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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663569">Du Bist Wunderschön!</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignorama/pseuds/ignorama'>ignorama</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Die Ärzte</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Aging, Anal Sex, Body Worship, Fluff, Friends With Benefits, Incredibly Minor Angst, M/M, Nipple Play, Nostalgia, Old Friends, Oral Sex, Scars, Tattoos, Tooth-Rotting Fluff</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-07</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-13 04:21:48</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Explicit</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>5,312</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/28663569</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/ignorama/pseuds/ignorama</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>It wasn’t often that Farin thought about aging, but having such a stark comparison in front of him made it obvious.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Bela B/Farin Urlaub</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>21</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Du Bist Wunderschön!</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Was this just an excuse just to wax poetic about old men for a while? Maybe.</p><p> </p><p>(Yeah)</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Farin was fond of minimalism. That much was obvious from his fashion sense (or lack thereof), but he tried to maintain it in other aspects of his life as well.  He kept his house neat: white walls, natural light, minimal cluttering. Not unlike Buddhist meditation rooms he had seen in his travels through Asia. Even his studio—with his piles of potential songs and collection of instruments—was more organized than most.</p><p>No matter how careful he was, he always ended up with a full house eventually. His voracious reading habit left him with overflowing bookshelves. Knick-knacks from his travels filled his walls and shelves like insulation. He didn’t mind souvenirs, keepsakes from his past, but he always reached his limit eventually. He was never afraid to purge, to go through each room and see what could be donated or sold, to clear up space and ultimately his mind. It was during one of those purges that he found an old photo album.</p><p>It was just one of many he had gathered over time with this particular hobby of his, an album he had completely forgotten the existence of over the course of several moves. This one was different from all the others. Compared to the thick leather-bound albums of his later photography, this one was a rather flimsy booklet: something that would have been outdated even when it was first filled, undoubtedly purchased at a discount at some secondhand shop in the city. The cover was made out of thick cardboard, held together only by a string that seemed to be on its last leg. <em> 1982-1988 </em> was scratched in permanent marker on its cover, undeniably his own handwriting. He barely looked at the first page before he was grabbing his phone to call Bela. He explained nothing more than he had found something they needed to experience together.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Bela told him he had the house to himself for the day during their call, and that much was made abundantly clear when his son didn’t come rushing up to greet his “favorite uncle” (a title he was sure many of Bela’s friends held at that point, but was a nice sentiment regardless). The house was silent as he stepped inside—as silent as it could be with Bela, anyway. He could hear music playing faintly from speakers somewhere in the house, some classic country he couldn’t quite place.</p><p>Following Bela into his living room, they bypassed children’s toys and horror paraphernalia alike, comics that Farin wasn’t sure were Bela’s or his son’s. Decades ago, he never would have expected the drummer to fit into the role of a father so perfectly—and in fact for the longest time he vehemently denied he would ever want to settle down—yet now he could hardly picture him as anything else. It made his surprise all the more exciting. </p><p>The two of them sat next to each other on the couch, close enough that their thighs touched and became a resting place for the fragile album as it opened between them.</p><p>Some of the photos were ones he knew well: copies of ones that first got spread in magazines, and then later on the Internet. Group shots of the two of them and Hans, or later Hagen. Staged ordeals from professionals that took hours and too much patience. Most, however, were much more intimate: candid shots taken by Farin himself around the city and in their old apartment, when life was simultaneously so much harder but so much simpler. He could practically feel the grime in each photo, but they hadn’t cared. They were happy then.</p><p>They laughed as they shared the memories each page resurfaced: some that Farin recalled as clear as day, others that Bela helped provide details to. Towards the back of the album was a series of photos they had both forgotten entirely, the memory returning to them both in an instant. The summer of 1983. An already overwhelmingly hot day in the city, only exacerbated by the broken fan they had yet to replace.</p><p>They lay on Bela’s black silk sheets, a luxury he saved for months to buy at the time. Each photo showed them lounging in progressively fewer and fewer clothes, down to nothing but a pair of black socks in Bela’s case—incredibly plain, given his vast collection nowadays. It had been an attempt at boudoir photography, or less elegantly and more accurately, them playing at being centerfold models for a good laugh. He remembered how they cackled as they passed the camera between themselves, posing like the models in the porno magazine (provided by Bela, of course) flipped open on the bed next to them.</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Make sure you get my good side, Jan!”  </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Good side? It’s your ass.” </em>
</p><p>
  <em> “Exactly the point, my friend!” </em>
</p><p> </p><p>It wasn’t often that Farin thought about aging, but having such a stark comparison in front of him made it obvious. It felt like the 80s hadn’t been that long ago, but they had changed so much since then, try as they might to put it off. He was more tired than he ever remembered being, his body coming up with interesting new aches if he didn’t stretch before bed, but he could still see some similarities between his current self and the version of himself from the 80s. He was still just as tall, thin, and blond (most of the time now, in the case of the last). </p><p>Bela, on the other hand, was a different man entirely—both in personality and appearance. If he didn’t know better, Farin wouldn’t believe they were the same at all. </p><p>There was the Bela in the photos, with wild, long hair and a disregard for anything but his own reckless hedonism. The Bela that acted before he thought, and got himself into his fair share of trouble for it. And then there was Bela now. Farin found him just as handsome now as he used to be, but he was used to loving the changes as often as the drummer went through them.</p><p>He was wearing his thick-rimmed glasses to get a better look at the pictures, but behind them Farin could see the laugh lines at the corners of his eyes, deeper in that moment as he smiled at their memories. Then there was the thin mustache that sat just above his smile. It wasn’t a new addition by any means, as Bela loved to experiment with any part of his body that grew hair, but it added to the “refined goth” look he seemed to be striving for these days. Very Vincent Price, or maybe John Waters. He supposed Bela would be honored to be compared to either.</p><p>The grey in his hair was a relatively new addition, his latest change. He had tried to hide it at first, was obsessive about dying even his sideburns, but he had been embracing it over the past few years. He even went so far as to flaunt it at times now, grey-blond just as appealing to his tastes now as all-black. Farin couldn’t resist the urge to lean over, kissing the bit of grey peeking through the currently black-dyed hair at his temple with a smile.</p><p>“Hey,” Bela said, taking off his glasses and stuffing them into his shirt pocket as he turned to face his friend with a gentle smile. The gravity of how close they were sitting suddenly set in. Farin could feel the warmth of his body against his side, could practically feel the thrumming of Bela’s pulse. Or maybe that was just his own.</p><p>“Hey,” he replied, reaching up with one hand to cup Bela’s cheek. He pulled him in closer, gently, as if he was waiting to be rebuffed. That never came. Instead, their lips met in a soft kiss that was immediately deepened by Bela. </p><p>That was another thing that hadn’t changed over the years. Their <em> agreement</em>. In the beginning, when they lived together, it had all been under the guise of experimentation. Farin had been curious, and well, Bela more than knew what he was doing. They were well past that point, though, nothing more complicated between them than trust and good sex. They knew each other better than anyone else, and would always come back to each other eventually. It had been years since the last time, even before <em> Auch</em>, but as Bela moved to straddle his lap—never once breaking their kiss—it felt like no time had passed at all.</p><p>While Farin’s hands initially came to rest on Bela’s hips, he soon found himself moving them back to his ass, sliding into his back pockets and pulling him in closer. Bela squirmed against him playfully, grinding against him in a way that sent a thrill of electricity down his spine. The drummer’s hands then slid beneath Farin’s t-shirt, warm as they caressed his skin. Farin felt the way he smirked into their kiss, triumphant in his conquest.</p><p>It wouldn’t have been the first time they got off from frotting on a couch like desperate teens, but Farin wanted <em> more </em>out of this reunion. He wanted to take his time with Bela, get to know his body all over again. He pulled back from the kiss then, just enough to breathe a simple request that had Bela bolting off of his lap in an instant:</p><p> </p><p>
  <em> “Let’s take this to your room.”  </em>
</p><p> </p><p>Bela was already working on the buttons of his shirt by the time he crossed the threshold. Coming up from behind, Farin slid his arms around him to finish the job himself. He looked over Bela’s shoulder easily as he unbuttoned the loudly-patterned fabric, watching with eager anticipation as more skin was revealed to him.</p><p>Farin allowed his hands to roam once the shirt was unbuttoned: up Bela’s sides, making their way forward to his chest, and finally back down to his waistband. He felt Bela sucking in his stomach as his hands brushed over it, making it far too flat for the gut he knew the man had accumulated over the decades. He frowned.</p><p>“You don’t have to do that, you know,” Farin remarked, keeping his hands firmly in their place.</p><p>“Do what?” Bela asked, as if he was totally oblivious despite the strain in his voice from holding his stomach in.</p><p>“This,” Farin pulled one of his hands back, only to slap it firmly back onto the smaller man’s stomach. Juvenile, perhaps, but it did the trick. The shorter man hissed, his gut tensing harder at the strike before relaxing to its true state. It was still firm, but with a noticeable curve of fat above that. No longer was it the tight, almost waifish frame he used to sport, aided by dangerous habits and the high metabolism of youth. Now, he had the body of a man his age that took care of himself: stocky, but undeniably athletic. He had seen Bela run marathons and play games of soccer just as often as he spent days on the couch with a beer and some chips. He had more energy than Farin did—then again, he always had. </p><p>Bela had never come this close to feeling something like self-consciousness, though, even during the typical self-loathing of one’s early 20’s. Usually he flourished under an adoring gaze, demanding attention he felt he deserved. The pictures must have gotten him thinking as much as they had for Farin, at least a little. </p><p>“You don’t have to hide for my sake, Bela,” he assured him, caressing his stomach for a moment more before his hand went further south to cup him through his jeans. “I want all of you.”</p><p>Bela moaned, practically melting backwards into the touch. “Even if I’m not a skinny young thing anymore?” He teased, breathless as Farin’s hands undid his jeans and worked their way inside.</p><p>“That skinny young thing couldn’t last more than a few minutes,” Farin pointed out in turn, a seductive murmur into his ear before he sucked the lobe into his mouth, nipping it. He wrapped a hand around his half-hard cock, pulling it out of his boxers and stroking him to full hardness. He allowed his hand to linger, jerking him firmly a few more times. He could feel the shiver that ran down Bela’s spine.</p><p>“This old man won't last much longer than that if you keep that up,” Bela replied with a strained chuckle, leaning his head back against Farin’s shoulder.</p><p>“Then let’s not waste any time, shall we?” He nuzzled Bela’s neck briefly before pulling away entirely, giving him a quick shove forward toward the bed. </p><p>Bela, for his part, quickly shucked his jeans and boxers the rest of the way down, letting them land in a heap on the floor with the rest of his clothes. He sat down on the edge of the mattress to pull his socks—a pair patterned with rubber ducks, this time—off, and Farin took the opportunity to undress himself. There was no need to make a show of it, his lack of rhythm would just be an embarrassment anyway, and he didn’t want Bela to take his time undressing him either. He was too eager to move on, more focused on Bela than himself. He was undressed by the time Bela looked up to him from his position on the mattress, and his surprise was evident. Farin couldn’t recall the last time he undressed so quickly, either. When Bela scooted further back on the bed to lay back against the pile of pillows at its head, Farin slotted himself comfortably between his legs.</p><p> </p><p>Almost immediately Farin’s hands returned to Bela’s chest, as if he was on a mission. In a way, he was. He started at the dusting of hair at the center of his sternum before branching outwards. He traced along the flames tattooed around one of his nipples, the faint remembrance of how it felt to get his own tattoo in the back of his mind. He couldn’t imagine that pain in such a sensitive area, but Bela had never been one to shy away from a bit of pain. The piercing that went through his other nipple, no matter how short lived it had been, was only proof of that. </p><p>“Sometimes I miss your piercing,” Farin mused as he rolled his thumb over the nipple in question, opposite the flames, feeling it harden under his touch.  Bela sighed, his head falling back against the pillows beneath him. “Eh, it got in the way,” He dismissed flippantly.</p><p>Bela was fond of going shirtless during concerts in those days. He rarely started out that way, usually in some tight-fitting shirt or another, but it always ended the same. He would work up a sweat drumming all evening, take the shirt off, and the piercing would come out. It was always a complete distraction, even as Farin had his back to him most of the time. The few glimpses he got were always more than enough. The ring he wore was bigger than it needed to be—heavy and swinging with every movement, practically glittering under the stage lights along with the rest of his sweat-shiny torso. </p><p>Farin loved to tug at that ring when it was just the two of them, the high-pitched whines it always brought forth like music to his ears. But ring or not, his nipples were still sensitive: a fact that Farin was well acquainted with. </p><p>At first he simply kissed around the previously-pierced nub, lathing his tongue over it. He let Bela luxuriate in the gentle sensation a while, but then suddenly took it between his teeth and pulled. The sound the drummer let out in response was positively obscene, a combination of a gasp and a shout as he arched towards the sensation, gripping the sheets beneath them. Farin held his nipple between his teeth a few seconds longer before releasing him, instead sucking it hard into his mouth. He was just as thorough with the other nipple, first tracing his tongue over the flames as he had earlier with his finger before giving it the same rough treatment as its twin. </p><p>Bela’s chest was left a mess of saliva and bite marks as Farin made his way further down his body. All the while, he could feel the insistent press of Bela’s hard cock against him. The bed was large enough that he was able to slide down the length of it comfortably with room to spare, settling on his stomach between Bela’s legs. His touch was more of a caress as he guided them over his shoulders, pressing a kiss to the soft skin of his inner thigh once they were in place.</p><p>He was at eye-level with his cock then, hard and straining in the dull light of the bedroom. It throbbed under Farin’s gaze, a surprisingly powerful twitch that went straight to the blond’s own cock. He propped himself up on his elbows and glanced up enough to lock eyes with the drummer, wiggling his eyebrows teasingly with a toothy grin. Bela scoffed, but his gaze as he looked back at him was fond. </p><p>Farin wrapped a hand around him, giving him a few firm strokes before finally taking him into his mouth. He sank down slowly until his nose was pressed into the trimmed nest of Bela’s pubes. Exhaling through his nose, he could feel the tip of his cock against the back of his throat. It had been some time since he had last given a blowjob—and it had certainly been Bela on the receiving end—but he was sure it wasn't unlike riding a bike. He just had to get back on it. What he lacked in recent experience he made up for in enthusiasm as he started moving. His hands held the drummer’s hips down as he began to bob his head along his length, taking his time going from tip to base like he had with his hand. He was somewhat uncoordinated at first, but quickly fell into a rhythm.</p><p>He felt Bela reach down and grip his hair—which he had left to fade back to grey in the time since their latest appearance. The drummer often remarked on how amazing it was that he hadn’t fried it all away by now, but it was precisely these breaks that kept his scalp healthy—but with the way Bela always tugged on the short spikes when they did this, that was liable to change. Still, he went with Bela’s guiding hand, letting him use his mouth as he pleased. </p><p>Instead of fucking his face as he might have usually, Bela kept the slow pace that Farin established. It seemed he wanted to make this last as much as he did. Still, he shallowly rocked his hips up to meet Farin’s mouth. He moaned around him appreciatively, delighting in the sharp hiss of a breath Bela let out in response. For a while there was nothing more than the feeling of Bela’s cock down his throat, the tight grip of his fist in his hair. </p><p>“Farin,<em> Jan</em>,” Bela’s groans of his name pulled him back to the present, and he wondered just how long they had been like this. What felt like hours must have been only a handful of minutes. He felt as Bela pressed something into his hand, and he didn’t have to look to tell that it was a bottle of lubricant. He was glad they were on the same page.</p><p>As much as he usually loved being on the receiving end of things, he was enjoying making Bela squirm. He teased him with a few more deep strokes, swallowing around him each time before finally pulling back, feeling more than a little proud at the small sound of disappointment the drummer let out as he did. That disappointment wouldn’t last long.</p><p> </p><p>He pushed himself back up onto his knees, letting Bela’s legs fall open as he went. He was the picture of wanton desire: hard and ready for anything Farin had in store. The first finger slid into him easily, and Farin didn’t linger long before adding the second. He knew Bela didn’t like to waste time, knew he could handle a bit of rough treatment. Still, he prepared him carefully, using more lube than perhaps was strictly necessary. </p><p>It was always a dead giveaway when Farin found his prostate. If not from the way he tightened around his fingers, then undoubtedly from the sharp cry he let out. Having found his target, he resumed stretching him, scissoring his fingers as he drove them repeatedly into his hole. He directed a few more rough thrusts to his prostate before finally withdrawing his fingers. He slicked his cock with lube, a quick pass from tip to base, where he held it as he began pushing into him.</p><p>Farin pulled his hand away, positioning them on the mattress on either side of Bela’s head as he pushed the rest of the way into him. He loomed over him, watching his reaction intently: the way his brows furrowed, his eyes shutting as his mouth opened in a silent gasp. He let out a breathy “<em>fuck</em>” as Farin bottomed out in him, and the blond wordlessly agreed. The pace he set was slow and deep, simply savoring the feeling after so long. </p><p>Farin found himself sinking further down onto Bela with each thrust, to the point where he could feel the other man’s erratic heartbeat against his chest. Their lips brushed on occasion, though they weren’t so much kissing as they were breathing the same air, meeting by sheer chance and proximity. The soft whimpers and grunts Bela let out practically into his mouth urged Farin to fuck him harder, his strong legs wrapping around his waist pulling him deeper.</p><p>After a while he paused to adjust the angle of his thrusts, pulling back to sit on his haunches. The new position gave him a better view of Bela sprawled out before him. His hair, so perfectly styled before, was a mess that stuck up in all directions. The flush on his face extended down his chest, which heaved with heavy breaths and glistened with sweat.  </p><p>“You look so good like this,” He groaned, running his hands over the hot, slick skin of Bela’s thighs as they lay open on either side of him. </p><p>“What about you, huh?” Bela replied with a smirk, his voice rough. Before Farin had a chance to respond, the smaller man was lunging forward to grab him. He easily rolled them so that <em> he </em> was on top, looking down at Farin instead as he straddled his waist. He finally pushed his hair out of his face, confident as he continued: “You, <em> Herr Urlaub</em>, are a prime specimen.” </p><p>Farin had never considered himself particularly remarkable, his definition of “specimen” in this case vastly different from Bela’s. He wasn’t self loathing by any means, in fact he was quite confident, he was simply aware that he was a bit too much: that his limbs were a bit <em> too </em> long, his teeth a bit <em> too </em>big. He was certainly unique at best, unsettling at the worst, but it worked for him. </p><p>His body had changed over the years as well, though seemingly in the opposite direction of Bela. His skin sat too tight against his bones in some places, while it sagged in others. None of that seemed to matter to Bela, though, who always looked at him like he had won the lottery. He ran his hands almost reverently down Farin’s torso as he sat astride him, caressing him more tenderly than he had been in recent memory. </p><p>He didn’t have time to dwell on that feeling because soon enough Bela was lifting his hips, immediately setting a brutal pace. It was faster than the pace Farin had set earlier, more frantic and focused on getting off. Bela’s patience had run thin, but Farin couldn’t say he minded.</p><p>It was his turn to hold on then, gripping Bela’s hips as the man rode him like his life depended on it. He moaned unashamedly, high-pitched little sounds that got squeezed from his throat. If anything they urged Bela on.</p><p>Farin’s orgasm came over him so suddenly after that it caught him off guard. A strangled shout erupted from his throat as his hips thrust upward, throwing Bela off his rhythm. He pulled him down onto his cock, sending him as deep as he could manage in their current position. Though he reached his peak quickly, he came down slowly. His cock pulsed inside of Bela, his body going lax beneath him. He felt like he could sink through the mattress, as boneless as he was. Blood rushed in his ears, but over it all he could still hear the satisfied groans Bela let out as he came inside of him.</p><p>When Bela went to take his cock into his hand, Farin shooed it away. He wrapped a hand around him instead, grinding his oversensitive but still residually hard cock upwards into him as he jerked him off. </p><p>While Farin’s orgasm was loud and explosive, Bela’s built slowly, washing over him like a wave. He sighed—a contented sound, like all the world’s pressure had been taken off his shoulders—and his head fell back, his hips stuttering forward into Farin’s fist. He stroked him through his orgasm, watching as his release splashed onto his fist and the flat plane of his stomach. He only let go when he felt him start to shiver with overstimulation, his body utterly spent. Farin raised the cum-splattered hand to his mouth, licking it clean with a smirk once he caught Bela’s attention.</p><p>He stayed on top of Farin a while longer, panting to catch his breath. Farin rubbed small circles into his hip with his thumb, enjoying the aftermath of his release. Bela’s body was tight around his softening cock, keeping him inside that heat for a while longer, until he lifted his hips and the pull of gravity had him slipping out.</p><p>He leaned down, holding Farin’s face between his hands and capturing his lips in a languid kiss. It lacked the heat and desperation of the kisses before, but the slow glide of lips and tongues was no less breathtaking. Pulling away after a moment, Bela gently tilted Farin’s head, and the guitarist anticipated a barrage of kisses on his now-bared throat. Instead, he licked away a drop of sweat that had sprung from his hairline and trailed down his cheek. “Gross,” He remarked without any real malice, and Bela wore a smug look of satisfaction as he pulled away. “No grosser than what you just licked,” He fired back, and Farin couldn’t argue with that in the slightest.</p><p> </p><hr/><p> </p><p>Finally, Bela rolled off of him with a sigh, settling on his back with space enough between them to cool their overheated bodies. If they were younger, it would have been at that point that Bela would light a cigarette—always considerate enough to hold it in the hand furthest from Farin, mindful to blow the smoke away from him. Even when he <em> knew </em>how much he hated it.  He supposed that had been a way for Bela to end their pillow talk without much emotional hassle. Instead, this time Bela simply stretched out on the bed next to him, enjoying the afterglow instead of pushing it away. Farin infinitely preferred the companionable silence over the cliched post-fuck smoke in the poorly ventilated rooms of decades past. </p><p>Finding it nearby, Farin took Bela’s hand into his, and gave it a squeeze before he brought it up to his lips. He kissed his knuckles: quick, playful pecks that earned him a soft chuckle from the man beside him.</p><p>As his lips began to make their way up his forearm, Farin realized he had never been so up front with Bela’s scars. He hadn’t avoided them, per se, not since they were still fresh and painful, and even that was solely for Bela’s safety. He simply hadn’t acknowledged them—not unless Bela said something first—and had certainly never kissed them. </p><p>Now, as he did just that, he wondered if he had been cruel for ignoring them all those decades. Over time they faded so that, were it not for the damage done to his tattoos, it would be hard to notice them. But they were still there—still a part of him that he carried with pride—and they were deceptively soft against his lips, not unlike baby’s skin. He never would have imagined that marks that were once so harsh and angry, so painful, could feel so smooth. </p><p>“What does it feel like?” He asked, pressing a kiss into the center of what used to be his Depp Jones tattoo. It was no more than faded red and orange flames by then, and in the center where the clown skull once was, a new layer of skin had replaced it. Just as their reunion had replaced the actual band it represented. Farin noted with some pride—which was then immediately replaced by a quick tinge of guilt for having such a thought—that the Gwendoline tattoo that sat directly opposite on his forearm remained unmarred by the accident. </p><p>“What do you mean?” Bela asked in turn, tucking his free arm beneath his head to prop it up comfortably.</p><p>“Does it feel different from this?” Farin elaborated, moving to kiss a bit of skin nearby that had been spared from the flames. His tone was shy, uncertain of if he should even say anything. But he had never asked before.</p><p>Bela acknowledged the question with a low, tired hum, his eyes shutting as he thought of an answer. In the meantime, Farin resumed his kisses upward, until their position made it impossible for him to reach. He simply held his hand after that, running a thumb over tattooed knuckles. Bela didn’t pull his hand away, and for that he was grateful.</p><p>“It’s...different,” He finally answered, “I guess it’s like listening to a conversation happening in another room. You can kind of hear it, but you can’t quite understand.” Farin nodded his head, understanding but with nothing to add. What could he say that wouldn’t be two decades too late anyway? That he was glad it didn’t hurt to be touched? That would only bring the mood down.</p><p>When he finally looked away from Bela’s arm, setting it back gently on the mattress, he found its owner had fallen asleep. He clearly wasn’t as pressed by the question as Farin had been, or perhaps was just too worn out to be.</p><p>Farin turned onto his side, propping himself up on his elbow to get a better look at the man dozing next to him. Daylight still spilled through closed curtains across the room and he knew they would have to get back up soon enough, would have to shower and change the sheets and go back to their lives like always, but for now he enjoyed the rare sight of Bela truly at rest.</p><p>He looked younger as he slept. The faint wrinkles on his face faded almost entirely as the rest of his body relaxed, utterly at peace. Farin could recall the man they had seen in their photos earlier. He hadn’t changed completely. A chameleon was still the same chameleon at the end of the day. Ultimately he was still that Bela, just shaped and marked by decades of experience. The bold red and black letters tattooed on his chest read “<em>too old to die young</em>.” Farin was glad he hadn’t, despite the countless close calls through the decades. </p><p>If he was going to grow old, at least he knew he would always have his best friend by his side.</p>
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